Mary

by Raine Cantrell

  Catherine settled down to her mending as his boots hit the stairs like those of a man in a hurry.

  Mary, she thought, wasn’t the only one who knew how to plant seeds and nurture them a bit. She could just sit back now and watch her seeds grow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mary had not lied to Catherine. Her walk into town provided her with the time to sort through the problems plaguing her.

  She spent the first few minutes marshaling her bartering skills for the confrontation with Mr. Crabtree. Always an unpleasant chore. He was not going to allow her to buy back a doll at the same price he had paid her for it.

  While this was not the most important item on her mental list, it was the shortest. Thinking about Mr. Crabtree also gave her the opportunity to start forth on a somewhat positive note.

  The next problem she couldn’t ignore.

  What was she going to do about Rafe?

  Letting her guard down with him had proved the worst mistake she could make.

  That’s it, Mary. Close the oven door after the bread’s been baking for a while.

  Self-directed anger churned inside. She added a good dose of anger at Rafe, and she walked faster.

  How dare Rafe make her admit how much she had missed the special closeness that only happened between a man and a woman!

  She couldn’t get that kiss out of her mind. At odd moments she caught herself remembering the firm feel of his lips enticing her mouth into a deeper kiss. His masculine scents that filled her with longing.

  She had expected the heat. If anything, it had surpassed her imagination.

  But she had not thought to lose all sense of self in surrendering to her own need.

  Rafe made her feel…

  Hungry?

  No!

  “Yes,” she whispered. “There’s no sense denying it.”

  The clear, bell-like song of meadowlarks rode on the soft breeze. The sounds, like the mild weather, made for a serene day and mocked her agitation.

  She had run from the house when she longed to be with Beth, run to escape thoughts of Rafe and his seductive kiss.

  She could admit that Rafe and his daughter made her hungry to fill the emptiness of her life.

  The sound of approaching riders sent her to the edge of the road. Mary didn’t recognize the two men who rode past, but their appearance served to set aside her musing.

  She set her market basket down to retie the brown ribbons of her natural straw bonnet and straighten her shawl. She shook the dust from the hem of her dark brown calico skirt and petticoats. With a touch to the small cluster of ribbon roses at the banded neck of the long-sleeved white muslin blouse, she continued into town.

  Mary had to step carefully once she reached the wooden sidewalk. It was built two feet above the dirt street. The heavy rains turned the street into a fast-flowing stream, and the moisture had warped the boards.

  The sound of hammering came from behind Abel Nieven’s tobacco shop. He also served as the town’s undertaker. A few horses, tails flicking to chase flies, were hitched along the rails lining the street.

  Across the way, Dolly Hudspeth stopped sweeping in front of the tailor shop she and her husband owned to return Mary’s wave. Dolly’s brother, Thomas Hoffman, was the new minister. He held Sunday service in the Paradise Saloon until the church could be built.

  Next to Dolly’s shop was Will Nelson’s telegraph and Wells Fargo office. Mary inclined her head to acknowledge Buck Purcell’s greeting in front of the First Bank of Hillsboro. She stopped against the wall of Murphy’s Café when a shouting group of men spilled from Waterman’s Assayers. Mary had to smile, despite the colorful suggestions men made to the two in the center. The miner’s ore must have proved rich, to judge by the amount of liquor they intended to buy, as well as the nightlong visit to the little house set back behind the livery.

  As one of the respectable ladies in town she was not supposed to acknowledge the existence of that house or its occupants, much less to know what went on there. But it was a topic of conversation for the ladies’ sewing circle that met once a month.

  She skirted the stacked nail kegs in front of J. P. Crabtree’s Dry Goods Emporium and stepped inside. The air was musty and the light dim, but the store had no overpowering smell of brine from barrels of salt pork and pickles like Marcus Jobe’s family grocery.

  Mary saw J.P. behind the counter, totaling the order of two men she pegged as miners from their dress. She chose to wait until J.P. was free before she approached him.

  It could be a while. J.P., like the other business owners in town, acted as a clearinghouse for news. At least the men called it news when they passed it along. Women gossiped.

  Miners talked of weather in the mountains, Indian troubles and conditions on the trails. Happenings from murders to claim jumping to new strikes in mining camps were passed along in saloons, cafés and boarding houses. From the livery stable, information about men’s horses filtered down. She had even heard it said that you could tell a gunman’s horse from any other. Those men tended to have the best grain-fed horses.

  She imagined men who lived by their guns needed animals that could be depended upon to ride fast and far.

  Wandering the aisles, Mary shook her head. How did J.P. ever find what someone wanted? The goods on the rough board shelving were partly obscured by hanging farm implements, horse collars and bridles. Hickory chairs hung above the shelves on thick wooden wall pegs, carpetbags next to a barrel filled with ax heads. Goodness knew where the ax handles were stored. Kerosene and lamp oil, leakage making their odor pungent, took up a large part of one wall.

  Iron kettles, enamel pots and soup ladles were mixed with lanterns, boxes of candles and coils of rope.

  In a small alcove, a drummer stood tallying an assortment of weapons. Kegs of blasting powder, fuses and caps were piled to one side.

  Mary, looking down the aisle, saw J.P. alone. He was fishing a piece of rock candy from the covered crock on the counter. J.P. generously allowed anyone spending a dollar or more in his store one piece of candy.

  Mary wasted no time in hurrying down the aisle.

  “Afternoon, Miz Inlow. Saw you come in. What can I do for you this fine day?”

  “Mr. Crabtree, I need to buy back one of the dolls I sold you.” Mary found three dolls sitting on the cluttered shelf behind him. Her eyes widened when she saw the price he had posted.

  “You’re charging more than three times what you paid me for the dolls?”

  “That’s right.” J.P. hooked his suspenders with his thumbs. “An’ don’t you get in a flutter over it. Supply an’ demand is my law, Miz Inlow. Truth to tell, I done you a big favor taking them dolls on in the first place. Fact is, I only sold two last week, to one of the drummers. Ain’t got much call for fancy presents for little ones. Girls, that is.

  “Boys, now, are a mite easier to please. Fishing hooks, pocketknives, a good rifle or a pair of boots do a boy just fine. Girls tend to get as finicky as their mamas over what they get. Fact is, Miz Inlow, I don’t much cater to women’s trade.”

  Mary couldn’t help herself. She swept a disdainful gaze over the clutter behind him. “I couldn’t doubt the truth of your statement, Mr. Crabtree. But I supplied the dolls. You aren’t thinking of charging me—”

  “Now, now, I got to. Folks would hear I’d gone soft. No arguing. That’s my price. Two dollars. Cash, mind you. An’ don’t,” he said, freeing one hand to point a finger at her, “be telling me you ain’t got the money. I sent that fella what was needing help for his little girl to you. Ain’t gonna tell me you ain’t charged him for what all you done, and board. Ain’t gonna believe—”

  “Mr. Crabtree, what I did or didn’t do is none of your business. But you would benefit greatly from a dose of Christian charity.”

  “Not when it costs me money, I ain’t. Miz Inlow, things are a mite tight.”

  “It’s a pure wonder you don’t strangle on them,” Mary muttered, under the guise of a cough. Sh
e set her market basket on the counter and opened the cord tie of her drawstring purse.

  “I am prepared to pay you sixty cents more than I received, and not one penny more, Mr. Crabtree. If I didn’t need the doll for Nita’s granddaughter’s birthday gift, I wouldn’t purchase it at all.”

  “Nita, you say?” He rubbed his chin, then turned around to look at the dolls.

  “That’s right. Besides, doubling your money should help cushion your bank account, but it won’t do much for your conscience. Nita shared the amount of contributions the businessman in town made to the church building fund. I can’t tell you how disappointed the ladies’ sewing circle was to learn you made one of the smallest pledges. And you a founding father of the town.”

  “She had no right—”

  “Yes, she did. She’s keeping records for the minister. He mentioned something about putting up a plaque, a brass one, with all the names of those who made the church building possible.”

  Mary lowered her gaze and counted out the money from her meager store. Laughter bubbled inside her. Mr. Crabtree gazed heavenward, stroking his chin, and she could almost hear his greedy mind at work, thinking of his name being the first on that plaque. The Lord would forgive her lie, she was sure. After all, the church would benefit from it.

  She pushed the money across the counter to him. She glanced at the big crock of candy and thought how much Beth, and Catherine, too, would enjoy having some. Stingy Mr. Crabtree would only allow one piece for her sale. A small one, most likely.

  He reminded her so much of her husband that she found it impossible to remain and bargain over the cost of candy with him.

  “I’d like the doll in the middle with the blue satin skirt. And please wrap my piece of rock candy.”

  Mr. Crabtree handed over the doll and, with a quick twist, paper-wrapped a chunk of the sugar-sweet candy. Still thoughtful, he peered at Mary. “How come I ain’t heard nothing about this here brass plaque?”

  “It’s to be a surprise. If you tell, I’ll know. And Mr. Crabtree, rest assured I will share the news of your newfound generosity with the ladies’ sewing circle.”

  “Ain’t said I was gonna give—”

  “Why, just think, they might consider putting your name on a pew. One right in the front of the church, Mr. Crabtree.”

  Mary put the doll and candy into her basket. He offered a vague hand wave as she wished him a good day. Mary was occupied with convincing Nita and the other ladies that her idea of plaques had merit. They would encourage a little competition and garner larger donations. She bumped into a man coming into the store.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, then attempted to step around the barrel-chested man.

  Her apology was greeted with a snorting laugh that sounded like a hog at the feeding trough. Wrinkling her nose at the odors of liquor and unwashed body, Mary repeated her apology. The man was unshaven, and his food-stained clothing and the rings of dirt above and below his neckerchief were repelling.

  “I’ll ask once more. Please, excuse me.”

  “You’re just the little lady I’ve been looking for.”

  She looked at his face. Thin lips, thick mustache, a long nose and small ice-blue eyes with no more warmth in them than the head of a nail made her back away.

  He hooked one hand on the basket handle. The other rested on the butt of his gun.

  “I can’t imagine why you would be looking for me. We do not know each other. I want it kept that way.” Mary yanked the basket, but he wouldn’t release it.

  “Name’s John Balen. Friends call me Hog. On account of my laugh. You got—”

  “Mister, we are not friends. We are not even chance acquaintances. Let go of my property and let me pass.”

  “You call attention and you’re gonna get someone killed. Just listen. You got a man out at your place. You tell him to come into town. I’m waiting on him.”

  Mary’s eyes widened as she looked above the man’s square shoulders. Before she could utter a sound, Rafe spoke.

  “Where I come from, when a lady asks politely, a man’s smart to move.”

  “Then go back where the hell you came from stranger. Butt out. This ain’t your affair.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Rafe knocked aside Balen’s hand and lifted his gun, while using his other hand to spin the man around.

  “You can deliver your message in person. To me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rafe rode Rebel into town. His first stop had been at Bott’s livery, to hire a wagon for the supplies he intended to buy.

  Will Bott was a giant of a man, topping Rafe by a good few inches. The livery owner admired good horseflesh, and Rebel was that. The big sandy-haired man asked a fair price to rent his wagon and a team. Rafe agreed, then asked if any dead or injured man had been found.

  “Funny you should ask. Found a fella in the stable this morning. Had a lump on the back of his head the size of a shot glass. Said his horse got spooked and threw him. Didn’t appear to me to know how he got here. Wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

  With all honesty, Rafe said he knew nothing about it.

  “That man was cross as an old grizzly. Wouldn’t want to meet up with him again today.”

  “You appear a man who could hold his own and then some,” Rafe remarked. He thought about the tracks. The feeling came back that Shell Lundy had something to do with the barrel-chested man.

  “Like to wrassle some. Ain’t much good with a gun. Not to say I couldn’t use one if the need was there.” He eyed McCade’s lean body with a wide grin. “Ain’t had me a good man to tussle with in a while.”

  “I can hold my own, but unlike you, I’m better with a gun. That man hanging around town?”

  “Saw him go over to the Red Horse. You mind what I say. Be careful. He’s a mean-looking hombre. And I’ll bring the wagon around back of Jobe’s grocery for you.”

  “Appreciate that.” Rafe handed over the dollar rental fee, then added another dollar. “Don’t know if I can get your wagon back tomorrow. I’ll need pack-horses, too. Four. Mountain-bred, if you’ve got them.”

  “Got three mustangs. Ten dollars a head. Trail-broke, but I ain’t saying they’re good for more.”

  “Tie them back of the wagon.” Once more Rafe counted out money, this time two twenty-dollar gold pieces. “I’ll be needing saddle packs for the horses. If the charge is more—”

  “Plenty here. Stuff I got ain’t new. But say, you’re the fella with the little girl. J.P. said she was hurt. Apache attack, right. How’s she doing?”

  “Better. I’ve got things to—”

  “That Mrs. Inlow’s a mighty fine and knowing woman. She took care of my Bessie—that’s my wife—when she stole a honeycomb from the wrong hive. Had so many bee stings, a man couldn’t count them all. Them widows come by every day to tend her and the chores. Fine—”

  “Yes. I know. I’ll see you at the grocery.”

  Rafe led Rebel by the reins and walked into town. Hearing Will talk about Mary wiped every thought but those of her from his mind. But he had to go to the telegraph office before he found Mary. He had to know what was happening at the Cañón del Agua mine.

  Unconsciously he must have been looking for the square-shouldered man from the saloon. His gaze lit on him blocking the door of the emporium. That was where Mary had gone.

  Hearing Mary’s demand to pass, set Rafe to moving with a deadly fury.

  Now, holding the man’s weapon on him, Rafe repeated, in a deadly-cold voice, a request to have the message delivered to his face. “Only we’ll step around back. Mary, did he hurt you?”

  “No. But, Rafe—”

  “I had a wagon sent over to the grocery. I’d be pleased if you’ll meet me there. This won’t take long.”

  “Now, you hold on there, McCade. I ain’t going nowhere with you.”

  Rafe clicked back the hammer of Balen’s gun. Then he smiled. “I have Samuel Colt’s word that you will do exactly what I tell you.�
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  Mary’s gaze followed Balen’s down to the gun barrel that nudged his stomach.

  “I’ve heard that Colt’s impatient. And you’re straining mine. Move.”

  Balen glanced at the men gathering in front of the store. He made a move to turn around. Rafe stopped him.

  “No. Walk backward. I want you to face me at all times. I don’t shoot men in the back, as a rule. Of course, there’s always a first time for everything.”

  Mary clutched her basket to her chest. How could Rafe sound so calm, but speak with a deadly menace that left no doubt he would shoot Balen as soon as talk to the man?

  Rafe crowded Balen. The man moved backward along the uneven wooden sidewalk.

  Mary followed them. When Rafe disappeared into the side alley, some unseen and unheard signal passed between men she knew—Dolly’s husband, Chad, Abel Nieven and Ollie Walker—to block not only her view but her passage.

  “Be best if you go on with your shopping, Mrs. Inlow,” Chad suggested. He took hold of her arm to turn her away. “Ain’t for a lady to see.”

  Mary didn’t waste breath arguing with him. Since they wouldn’t let her pass between them, she’d go around them. A loud grunt came from the direction of the alley. All she could think was that Rafe might get hurt.

  Someone shouted that there was a fight. Before Mary took a step, men appeared from the saloons and shops, all running to see. Their backs presented her with a solid wall of male resistance.

  She refused to be defeated. Hurrying along the sidewalk, she intended to go around the buildings from the other side. Nita came out of her shop. She caught hold of Mary’s arm.

  “What’s going on? Who’s fighting?”

  “Come and see.” Mary tugged free and ran.

  Brush and broken bottles, assorted wooden boxes and puddles slowed Mary’s progress. But she managed to get around, with Nita hot on her heels.

  Rafe had tossed aside Balen’s gun. His first blow sent Balen staggering, the second doubled the man over.

  “That was for the disrespect you showed Mrs. Inlow. How many more blows you take depends on the answers I get.”